


Ink

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Body Calligraphy, Drabble, Established Relationship, F/M, Movie: Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 22:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13327614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: She'll always be that, edges and bones. She feels soft now.





	Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dearly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearly/gifts).



> I'm really, really weak for soft, domestic Reylo.

“I want to try something,” he says, in the afternoon rain, when she comes in, muscles sore from training, and kisses him on the temple. Her fingers absentmindedly thread through his hair. "Strip."

She obeys, sighing, cricking her neck as she sits on the bed, sliding off her tunic and pants. She lies on her stomach, resting her cheek against her folded arms.

"Would you do this with anyone else?" she asks, small talk more than an accusation.

"Just you," he replies casually. He's been working on archiving all afternoon. He smooths his palm down the planes of her back as he lies down beside her, his weight dipping the mattress. He briefly cups her right breast, smoothing her nipple between finger and thumb. She hums, already sleepy. Training takes it out of her.

He reaches over to the side table. A pot of ink, his calligraphy brush stands there. Rey watches with a little smile as his long fingers curve around the brush, as the white of the brush is wetted with ink.

He kisses her shoulder as he leans over her, warm skin on warm skin.

The ink is wet on her skin. She feels every curve, every sweeping line. He draws up the line of her shoulder blades, jagged from her time on Jakku. 

The forest outside, the scent of the storm, fills her nose, mixing with the ink. She is a canvas, so she lies there, sinking into the rhythm of each assured touch. 

When the ink is dry, his fingers replace his brush. He traces his work, her skin with fore and middle finger. She shivers, pleasure rippling through her belly. It's nice, so nice, to be celebrated. Every edge, every bone. She'll always be that, edges and bones. She feels soft now, among sheets and half in sleep.

His other arm comes to rest on her pillow as he hums, losing himself in touching her, still following the lines of his work.

She peeks into his thoughts. 

What she sees are falcon wings.

Slowly unfurling, grey and black feathers spanning the narrow width of her shoulders. She looks powerful.

He looks at her as she comes back to herself. A grin slips onto his face, lazy and lopsided.

She grabs the wet brush. Her tongue sticks out the corner of her mouth as she, with shaky hands, still unused to this ancient art, paints sticks of black onto his forearm. He clenches and unclenches his fist as his eyes stay on the words she's marked him with.

"I love you," she voices softly, worrying her bottom lip absentmindedly.

The mark, written in shaky Basic, moves with his arm as he holds her chin, tilting her head up.

He kisses her softly and for a while, they lie together and listen to Chandrila's gentle rain.


End file.
